Drown to Live

By Christofir & Ani Krihkori

No one can understand the helplessness of living out a life-or-death moment in slow motion. Sometimes you just have to drown...so you can live.

A family picnic at a Southern California beach ends with a near-drowning, transforming a man caught in the clash between two disparate cultures-his own and the one to which he aspi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Mar 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887385464

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DROWN TO

LIVE

Christofir and Ani Krihkori

Drown to Live

Trilogy Christian Publishers A Wholly Owned Subsidiary of Trinity Broadcasting Network

2442 Michelle Drive Tustin, CA 92780

Copyright © 2023 by Christofir and Ani Krihkori

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without written permission from the author. All rights reserved. Printed in the USA.

Rights Department, 2442 Michelle Drive, Tustin, CA 92780.

Trilogy Christian Publishing/TBN and colophon are trademarks of Trinity Broadcasting Network.

Cover design by: _Jaimee Hoffman Sconziano_

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Trilogy Christian Publishing.

Trilogy Disclaimer: The views and content expressed in this book are those of the author and may not necessarily reflect the views and doctrine of Trilogy Christian Publishing or the Trinity Broadcasting Network.

Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN: 979-8-88738-545-7

E-ISBN: 979-8-88738-546-4

CHAPTER ONE

Beyond the Fine Line

e

A high of 78 degrees, blue skies, smooth surf, and a gentle sea breeze—typical Southern California climate. What could go wrong on a day like this?

After living in this enviable environment for over a decade, and now as a naturalized citizen, Koko still marveled at his good fortune and his freedom to do whatever he wanted and whenever he wanted to do it. And when the opportunity to paraglide, skydive, or take on any other risky sport came his way, he slipped into the appropriate gear and headed out. The mountains, the desert, the beach—any one of them was a short drive away and suited his appetite for adventure. Where he had spent his childhood, his life had not been so much about pleasure as it was about endurance.

With breakfast behind them, Koko looked out the kitchen window of their Woodland Hills apartment and told his wife Ani and their two small boys to pack a picnic basket and their swimsuits. They were going to Huntington Beach, where the surf was a little rough at times—but excellent swimmer that he was, he reveled in the challenge.

Upon delivering his pronouncement, Koko disappeared into the bedroom and left everyone awaiting his re-emergence.

Twenty minutes later, with the boys getting antsy and the day slowly disappearing before them, Ani knocked gently before opening the bedroom door. Appearing dazed, Koko lay atop the king-size bed in silence meditation, visibly resenting her intrusion. As if from a distance, he asked for another minute or two to shake himself out of his reverie and then vanished behind the door.

Ani ushered the boys out of the front entrance and walked them toward the elevator. They would wait for their daddy in the car. The minutes passed slowly, giving the boys reason for restlessness and Ani time to worry about Koko’s odd behavior. It was not like him to act so mysteriously. With nothing else to go on, she attributed it to work. Then she turned on her iPhone and lost herself on Facebook.

Several moments passed before Koko knocked on the passenger-side window, and Ani reached over to open the driver’s side door for him. His mind seemed elsewhere as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the freeway in silence.

An hour later, after the foursome had picked up two additional passengers—Ani’s mom, Mary, and dad, Stepan—their SUV pulled into the crowded Huntington Beach parking lot. Ani noticed the surf was up and that the swimmers had all but abandoned the waves. But Koko was undeterred. He had emerged from his preoccupation, eager to take it on.

Everyone piled out of the car but Stepan, who chose to stay behind and take a nap.

The sand was warm and inviting, and Ani staked her claim to a perfect spot a few yards up from the shoreline. Koko set down a beach blanket and an umbrella, under which he opened a folding chair for Mary. Suntan lotion slathered over all four bodies, Koko took four-year-old Jake down to the water’s edge. Moments later, Ani followed with two-year-old Jahden. Just as everyone was getting their feet wet, Koko looked toward the horizon and nudged his wife—he was going in.

Back at the blanket, Ani doled out the sandwiches to Mary and the boys and took a sip of lemonade with her first bite of tuna. For the next fifteen minutes, Mary took her eyes off Koko as he flawlessly body-surfed one huge wave after another. Then, slowly, she half-turned to Ani. I don’t see him anymore. Do you?

Ani jerked to attention and pointed toward the surf. I did—just a minute ago.

What about now?

Long pause. Ani could feel her heart rate elevate as she scanned the waters, unable to pinpoint Koko’s location. A man standing next to her in khaki shorts and a polo shirt motioned to another bystander that a swimmer was in jeopardy.

Ani stood up and approached the man. Excuse me. What’s going on?

Way out there… you see it? Looks like a body floating. Geez! Tough luck.

To Ani’s right stood an uneven line of eight to ten people, gawking and buzzing about something or someone they saw in the ocean.

Ani held her breath as she realized that was Koko out there. She scanned the crowd and beyond, frantically seeking a lifeguard—someone to recruit on Koko’s behalf. But there was no one—neither a state employee nor a good Samaritan willing to rush to his rescue. Ready to call 911, Ani checked her cell phone, but no signal was coming through. Suddenly feeling helpless, she began to scream. Help! Is there a lifeguard out here… somewhere? Someone… please… help! Please!

The man in shorts and polo put his hand on her arm in sympathy.

Ani collapsed to her knees. Her first thought was of Jake and Jahden. If, God forbid, something happened to Koko, how would she explain to the boys that a day at the beach took their daddy away? They were so young, and now they might be without him for the rest of their lives. As for herself—she might be a widow. No! Don’t think such thoughts! A chill rushed up her spine.With a light touch to her shoulder, Ani turned and squinted upward toward an elderly woman whose face was obscured by the sun’s bright rays and a large-brimmed straw hat.

The woman smiled reassuringly. Pray to Jesus, young lady. Jesus will bring miracles. Don’t give up. Pray to Jesus.

Still on her knees, Ani started praying, comforted by the faith that this wasn’t the end for her husband. At that moment, another woman—companion to the first—approached her. Where’s your family, dear?

My mom and kids are right here, but my dad’s up there in the parking lot… in our car.

When the woman volunteered to get him, Ani told her the SUV’s make and model and watched her head toward the lot. Finding Stepan just waking up from a nap, the woman introduced herself through a rear window. Sir. I’m sorry to tell you… I believe your grandson has drowned.

Stepan was in shock as he opened the door, thanked the woman, and followed her down to the beach. When he arrived at the blanket, he turned to Ani. Where are my grandkids? What’s going on?

The kids are fine. They’re over there… see? They’re building a sandcastle. It’s Koko that’s missing, Dad. I’m scared. Stepan put his arm around her, shivering back, and pulled Mary close.

His eyes searched the surface of the expansive sea. How long has he been gone?

Maybe half an hour. But nobody wants to go out there. It’s too risky. I can’t blame them.

Finally, four lifeguards arrived on the scene. Some caring someone had, no doubt, made the call. One of the lifeguards approached Ani. Hi, ma’am. I’m Brad Fowler, senior lifeguard here. Is that your husband out there?

Yes. I’m pretty sure. Ani was shaking with fear.

Okay, well, I’ll stay with you while my three lifeguards go out there, try to locate him, and do everything they can to bring him back to you.

Ani sat stone-faced, praying under her breath, never taking her eyes off the shimmering waters beyond the waves. Minutes passed, and two of the three lifeguards began heading back. But Koko was not with them as they came ashore and walked briskly toward Ani and Brad. One of them, who introduced himself as Tim, looked somberly at Ani as he approached. I’m sorry about what’s happening, ma’am.

The second lifeguard shrugged apologetically. There’s a fine line in the ocean that, as lifeguards, we’re not permitted to pass. We go beyond that line, and we risk our own lives, so…

Brad inquired about the third responder, a petite young woman. Where’s Tandis? Did she go ahead?

Tim nodded. She’s trying her best, but it’s not looking good right now.

Unaware of the family crisis, Jake and Jahden were still building their sandcastle, giddy with excitement over its mounting size. But Mary, holding her hand to her heart, was showing signs of physical distress. Ani kept praying, oblivious to them all, as drowning scenarios flooded her brain.

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CHAPTER TWO

Koko: Life and Death and In Between

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Time has stopped. Maybe, forever. I’m floating in choppy waters that hauled me out here from the shoreline I can no longer see. My mouth is gaped open, my throat contracted. Already I have taken in small doses of seawater, and I must keep from ingesting more. My torso is arched forward, my limbs—weary from flailing reactively—are pointed backward. Gazing toward the sky, my eyes are unfocused. Everything is taking on a yellowish tinge. The longer I can keep the remaining air in my lungs, the greater my chance for rescue. Someone is swimming toward me. If only I can hold out…

Nonbeliever though I am, I silently call upon God in a desperate plea for my life. God! If this is the end, let it be. But if I am to survive, I need your help. My energy is used up, and I cannot do this alone.

I release one faint wisp of air and switch mental screens to a flurry of images from an earlier time in my life. My beginnings—and beyond.

e


 I was born in Aleppo, Syria, on July 28, 1983, and I’ve lived several lifetimes since then. I pray this one isn’t my last.

Most families in our community, including ours, lived not in single-family houses but in apartment buildings. We had a one-bedroom unit on the fourth floor. My younger brother, Raffi, and I slept on sofas, which never bothered us since, being kids, we didn’t need much room. We both excelled in school, where, among other things, we learned English grammar—although not nearly enough to hold a conversation. I was head of my class academically but passionately drawn to the stage and performing arts. Acting was one of the few outlets I could count on to satisfy my repressed emotions, and I lost myself in every character I played. Although I never felt connected with the church, I occasionally appeased my family by showing up. The pastor liked my voice and asked me to sing in the choir. So, for a time, I grudgingly lent my pre-pubescent tenor to his Sunday worship services. Every time I sang a solo, I could see my mom bursting with pride. I wished for more moments like that, but they rarely came. In fact, make that, never!

I knew nothing about politics except what I heard filtered down to me from my parents. From what I could tell, the Syrian government was benevolent to its Armenian Christian citizens like us, many of whom were high-ranking members of Assad’s administration. Hafez al-Assad was a dictator, as was his son and successor, Bashar al-Assad, but they treated our people well, and for that, we were grateful. There, within a Muslim-dominated world, they took care to protect us, whereas, in nearby Iraq and other parts of Syria, Christian beheadings were commonplace and an integral part of the culture. All four of my grandparents were survivors of the Armenian genocide of 1915 and had long ago emigrated to Dair-ez-Zor, in the northern part of Syria. From the time of the diaspora, our community has considered itself fortunate to live in a country where we would not have to fear for our existence. Since I had no basis for comparison, I believed my parents when they told me how lucky we were. I had yet to discover that Shining City on the Hill that President Ronald Reagan referred to in his farewell speech to the nation—that symbol of freedom-loving people everywhere. We didn’t know it yet, but the American president was talking about members of my own family, including six-year-old me.

While I was growing up, embargoes from the United States and several European countries triggered a steep economic decline that resulted in staggeringly high unemployment. The only thing that kept the country’s GDP afloat was government-run oil export. During that period, foreign tourism was almost illegal in Syria, so it was also declared illegal for Syrian citizens to carry around U.S. dollars—let alone use them for monetary transactions. Invariably, such dealings were forced underground. For a time, Dad benefited from the trend—although he eventually became one of its victims.

My father owned a workshop where he made parts for automobile engines. But his profits were barely enough to feed the family—and food was our primary concern since, in Syria, the one monthly bill we paid directly was for utilities. In a cash society like ours, there was no such thing as a mortgage or a cell phone bill. There was no available financing. No credit cards. If you didn’t have cash up front, you couldn’t buy anything. You certainly could not purchase a house. The reason Dad owned an apartment was that, in his youth, the profits from a successful business allowed him to pay for it in cash. But during the economic crisis that followed, the only solution for men like him was to find alternate ways of earning income. In Dad’s case, he found he could make a couple of hundred dollars driving passengers to Lebanon, and, over time, he learned he could make ten times that amount by hiding stuff in the trunk of his car. No, he was not engaged in drug smuggling. What he did was assist people in exchanging currencies. Tourists would come from Europe or America with their domestic money and need to exchange it for lira. The problem was how to do it in a country like Syria, where it was deemed illegal. The answer was Lebanon, where it was not illegal.

Lebanon was a four-hour drive from Aleppo. The process worked like this: you would find a clever way to stash the currency somewhere in your car and take it across the border to the legal exchange in Lebanon, where you traded it for lira. Then you would hide the lira in your car, re-cross the border back into Syria, and deliver it to your customer in exchange for a nice commission. It sounded easy enough, and it was until someone within Dad’s own network decided he was taking business away from him, and, to get even, he informed the border police. If it had not been for that snitch, Dad would never have been caught. At least, not that first time.

Catching Dad was easier for the police than finding the money he had concealed in his car. It took the government a month and a half, during which time they stripped the entire vehicle before discovering his hiding place. In the end, it had been worth their trouble since they found about two to three million dollars worth of currency underneath the left front fender. Dad’s bail was set at $1 million, a staggering amount at the time, which no one could afford to put up. Ultimately, he received a ten-year sentence and was sent to Adra Central prison in Syria. But, since this was his first offense, he got a sentence reduction after serving two years—and three years later, he was free.

In Syrian society, it was not acceptable for wives and mothers to work. So, with no other adult male living in our home and no outside source of income, Mom was left to figure out a way to take care of three-year-old me, my younger brother, and herself. I felt sad and helpless whenever I saw her crying, which was every day of the week—and it made me feel responsible for her troubles. I knew if it hadn’t been for Raffi and me, she could have been living comfortably with her parents and spending her days like the other women—gossiping with friends and neighbors. I didn’t know how to tell her how bad I felt for her without fear of embarrassing myself and making her feel worse, so I never did.

Visiting Dad in prison was traumatizing, but twice a month, we would make the two-to-four-hour drive to Damascus. The living conditions for the inmates there were the most primitive my child’s mind could imagine, although they were merely on par with those of a third-world dictatorship. Each cell was sectioned off by three rusty bars, broken concrete floors, and a rock-hard sleeping surface. Although my father had not committed a real crime, he was being severely punished for no other reason than the government’s newest monetary policy. I thought, All he did was help people exchange their country’s cash for ours. How is that different from a bank? With no gift for expressing myself, I kept my confusion locked up inside my head, where my feelings were forbidden entry. All I knew was that as the default man of the house, I had to remain strong. I could not burden Mom with my insecurities. She was already carrying her limit. Nor could I share them with Raffi, who was too young to understand. It occurred to me I was the only person on whom I could depend. And, despite how tentative I felt about my living conditions, I could not let myself down.

None of my friends had a father in jail, and I was ashamed by his circumstance. Naturally, I kept it a secret, as well as the fact that my uncle was paying my private school tuition. To add to my humiliation, family members and charitable neighbors brought us occasional meals. Well, more than occasional. I wanted so much to refuse their kind offerings, but I knew it would not be fair to Mom or Raffi. Even now, years later, the effects remain. For one thing, I do not feel comfortable accepting gifts. Not even from my wife or children. Just tell me that you love me or say thank you. That’s more than enough for me.

That tumultuous three-year period of my father’s incarceration triggered other emotional blockages, too, which I am constantly striving to overcome. I still have a lot of work to do—and, considering I may be moments away from death, I yearn for the opportunity.

I was in the fifth grade and about ten years old when Dad was released from prison. We were genuinely happy to have him home and to be a normal family again. Then, ten months later, on the day of my school recital, Dad was arrested again. This time, someone involved with the same money exchange as he was, a mechanic from the same neighborhood of Nazo, noticed some U.S. dollars in his cash drawer at the shop. He promptly reported it to the police, who immediately showed up to investigate. Once they opened the cash drawer, they saw the dollars, and once they had seen the dollars, they sent Dad back to jail. Afterward, the person involved with the money exchange business, Anas Abu Ghed (a different snitch than the first), came to the family and told us he had made a pact with Dad. In exchange for keeping the boss’s name confidential, Dad would be assured that his family received survival money while he was away in prison. Dad kept his promise, pleaded guilty, and served his sentence. The boss, not surprisingly, vanished.

If I learned anything important during those early years, it was to be slow to trust anyone—except myself.

e

By the time I was old enough to seriously consider my future, my uncles in Pasadena, California, convinced my parents to emigrate to the United States. Their logic was, how much worse could it be for you here in the U.S. than it’s been for you there, in Aleppo? It took eight years from the time they helped us fill out the initial paperwork for the U.S. State Department to approve our visas. When word came for us to show up at the U.S. embassy for an interview, I was in Armenia on a Boy Scouts trip. That was a glorious day as we began to imagine our new life in the land of the free, where my favorite uncles lived and about which they wove wonderful tales of joy and fulfillment and love of their adopted country.

Uncle Sarkis had a wild imagination, so we took whatever stories he told us with a grain of salt. When he wove a fanciful tale about a candlelight dinner he had once shared with Marilyn Monroe, we were naturally skeptical. Later we found out the gorgeous movie star had died in 1962, at which time Uncle Sarkis was still living in Aleppo and had not yet ventured outside its borders. Nor had Monroe ever been inside them. We later called him out